


Starside Confidences

by LilyChenAppreciationSociety



Category: Dark Artifices Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Looking Back At My Work I Have An Awful Lot of These Two, M/M, Written Pre Lady Midnight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-29 20:14:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6391669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilyChenAppreciationSociety/pseuds/LilyChenAppreciationSociety
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An attempt at characterizing Kieran before Kieran had any characterization to work with. Fun times.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Starside Confidences

**Author's Note:**

> Originally notated  
> "My first try at writing Kieran. I’m not sure it holds up now, but might as well throw it out there for Wild Hunt Day."
> 
> Originally posted to, (http://marcythewerewolf.tumblr.com/post/140240855906/)

Kieran watches Mark sometimes, at night when they’re riding, or when they should both be asleep. When the good Hunter falls apart and something foreign takes it’s place. It’s like watching him become a whole different person. Kieran knows about pretending, he grew up in the Unseelie Court. He even knows about lies, though they are fundamentally impossible for him. He doesn’t know what it is when Mark changes his the shape of his heart.

The differences between Mark as a Hunter and Mark as something else fade as time goes on. His face stops changing, stays faerie sharp. His posture remains languid, his words grow less coarse. But there is something in his eyes that is not the Hunt, that is soft and gentle and human as he watches the stars or stares at the grass near his head as he lies waiting for sleep. Kieran observes through cracked eyelids and under his lashes, as Mark mouths words to himself, over and over and over.

Sometimes when Mark is absolutely certain he’s alone, he whispers them, and over time Kieran grows more and more certain of what the words are.

Helen, Julian, Livia, Tibs, Dru, Tavvy.

The first is a plea, the second a fond reminisce, the third and fourth worried but gentle.

The words grow softer towards the end of the list, until Mark sounds like a mother talking to her child. Dru is a prayer, the feathery hiss of Tavvy, or sometimes just Tav, like a lullaby.

Kieran has many siblings, more than he can count, but he’s never been close to them. But these words are too sing song to be the names of lovers, too heartfelt to be mere friends. It’s a nursery song between siblings closer than Kieran’s, those who shared milk and cradle, not just blood.

He hopes Mark will grow out of it, embrace the Hunt like a brotherhood and abandon the midnight gospel of Helen and Jules and Livvy and Ty and Tavvy and Dru.

It never happens. Mark looks the vicious edge of the world in the face and keeps his heart firm, something not many can do.

So Kieran stops being annoyed and starts being curious. He remembers the Nephilim in the cage and Mark’s wide eyes, remembers rumours he never listened to because Mark was pretty and sharp and theirs already, eyes like the sun and the sea, so why would the past matter?

It matters now.

It takes a while to corner Mark. Gwyn is careful with anyone who hasn’t been in the Hunt for a century or longer, and Kieran and Mark both fall under that umbrella, are both regarded as the babies of the whirling wind.

But there are times when even the Hunt must rest and Mark manages to wander off to the pebbled beach under the cliffs where they stay. Kieran follows, stealthier than a cat, and watches as Mark sits with his feet in the water as the moon rises. His lips don’t move, but there’s something far off in his eyes, and Kieran can track the cadence of his thoughts.

“What are you doing, Nephilim?” Kieran asks, stepping out of the shadow of the cliffside. Mark turns, smooth as the weathered stones around him. But his eyes are just a little too tense, the gold of burial mounds and the blue of the sounding sea a little too closed off.

“Watching the tides change.” Mark replies.

Kieran smiles his prince’s smile. “It very nearly looked like you were singing a song, Mark of Angels. Or reciting a poem of some sort, to an audience of one. A poor audience indeed. Would you care to share?” In private he can needle Mark for his origin, though in public Gwyn insists they all treat him as a Hunt member full, to make sure their claim on him is true.

“You must have been mistaken.” Mark lies with his clever half breed tongue. “I was merely watching the moon rise.”

“No, it was a poem, I’m sure of it. I could recite it back to you, if you like, ‘Helen, Jules, Livia, Tiberius, Dru, Tavvy-’” he stops, Mark is ashen faced. “Sometimes you throw an Emma or two in there as well, just to add some variety.”

“I swear Kieran, on everything I have left to me, if you tell anyone we will no longer be-”

“Lovers?” Kieran cuts him off. “Or friends, did you mean say? You know I can’t trust a word out of your mouth, Mark Blackthorn. You’re still too good at lying, after all this time among us. But rest assured, I cannot lie, and I have no intention to tell Gwyn, who, I might note, would be quite displeased despite his soft spot for you. I was curious.”

“My thoughts are my own, despite everyone’s best efforts.” Mark says, Shadowhunter pride peeking out like a skittish bird.

It’s a good non-answer, Kieran has to admit. “Are they your kinsmen then?”

Mark doesn’t respond.

“I mean you no harm by the asking. I am loathe to hurt you, Mark” Kieran says, barely managing to get the phrase out cleanly. Such an extreme statement is hard for any faerie to muster, whether by nature or forged instinct.

“And do you mean any harm to those whose names you have discovered?” Mark asks, soft and nearly tender.

“Not… as of now.” Kieran says. “You can tell me about them, if you want. I know you must want to, your posture screams of words unspoken. I won’t tell anyone.”

“Promise me?”

“I swear, Mark Blackthorn, that if you take me into your confidence tonight I will not let knowledge of anything revealed let slip to any other.” Kieran says, knowing Mark would appreciate the oath. He likes safety, Mark, the small comforts against the tempest.

“Or use what you learn against me or mine?” Blackthorn prompts, relentless as the pounding waves.

Kieran hesitates, but curiosity wins out. Knowledge won is knowledge won, whether it can be used later or not. “Nor will I use that revealed knowledge to bring you or yours to injury, Mark Blackthorn.” he finishes.

Mark kicks at the rising water, now lapping at his calves. Then, in a voice so low as to be almost unheard, he says. “Helen is my full sister, the oldest of us, and the most mature. She’s beautiful, all muscle and gold and her eyes reflect the light. She is so strong, my Helen, and she loves truly.”

“Then there is Julian, our artist. He was not made to be third born, I think he might have thrived as the baby of the family. He wears responsibility honestly, and he is very clever and brave, but he loves the quiet and peace. Livvy and Tibs are the twins, and there would not be one without the other, even as babies they balanced each other….”

Mark speaks like a genius imparting the secrets of the universe, as he prattles on about childhood mishaps and tantrums and the warmth of sleeping next to two brothers of your blood. Kieran listens, dutiful and quiet, and resents the light in Mark’s eyes.

He hates them, those Nephilim children who hold some part of Mark Blackthorn’s heart, and have made him keep steadfast against all the sky, against Kieran. It isn’t fair. The Hunt is meant to be all encompassing, all erasing, that is why Kieran was sent there, but Mark is holding back, and Kieran knows they will never have him fully.

It isn’t fair.


End file.
